When the militiaman on her side of the hallway approached, Juli began to shake, bouncing lightly up and down on the bench and staring at the officer as he passed. Olga had grown tired of holding her baby and Juli had offered. Juli bounced the baby, feeling his fists tapping her shoulder, while the officer tipped his cap and smiled.
The baby was warm and soft, his hair sweet. As the night wore on, Juli held the baby boy closer, wishing Lazlo would return to hold her tight and close.
Komarov felt like a young man again. Instead of going home to Darnitsa, he stayed the night at the office. Every Kiev district KGB agent carried a copy of the Horvath photograph supplied by the militia. According to Deputy Chief Investigator Lysenko, militia officers on duty also had copies. Lysenko had become Komarov’s militia contact and would stay on duty through the night, unlike his boss, Chkalov, who went home to sleep like an overstuffed bear.
Although Horvath’s photograph was being shown to clerks, waiters, and bus drivers, they did not have a photograph of Juli Popovics.
Normally they would have gotten one from the Chernobyl plant, but because of the situation, it was impossible to retrieve records from the Chernobyl plant offices. As for Komarov’s oversight of Chernobyl security, he had assigned Azef, who sent regular reports to Moscow saying everything was under control. With other ministries up to their eyebrows in shit, Komarov was free to pursue his own interests.
Komarov needed to create a connection from Detective Horvath to Andrew Zukor to the CIA, and even to the Reagan administration in the United States if necessary. His visit to Deputy Chairman Dumenko in Moscow had set the stage. Because Zukor and his wife were required to report to Intourest in Uzhgorod during their summer visit to the Horvath family farm, evidence of Zukor’s contact with Detective Horvath was established. Detective Horvath would become the Gypsy Moth. Detective Horvath, who had used his brother in an attempt to destabilize the Soviet Union by causing an
“accident” at Chernobyl, was perfect in his new role. Who could be better than a Kiev militia detective on the run with an army record that included the cover-up of a questionable shooting along the Romanian frontier? A questionable shooting, which actually did earn him the nickname, Gypsy.
Everything in Komarov’s final report would support his asser-tion of Horvath’s guilt, even the encounter with the stranger outside the National Hotel in Moscow who inquired about “this Chernobyl business” would be used against Horvath. In the Soviet Union, so-called “intelligence” was easily manipulated, especially with the help of old comrades such as Major Dmitry Struyev in Kiev, an old-school Directorate T professional who could be trusted.
When Komarov called home to say he would spend the night at headquarters, he expected his wife to answer. Instead, Dmitry, his son, who was rarely home, said, “Good evening. May I ask who is calling?”
“I’m surprised to find you home,” said Komarov.
“Who is calling, please?” repeated Dmitry in a singsong voice.
“Never mind the jokes. Is your mother there?”
“She’s not here. Although you are able to refer to her as my mother, you seem to have forgotten who you are.”
“What are you talking about?”
“When I ask who it is, you cannot bring yourself to say you are my father.”
“This conversation is meaningless.”
“I agree. So, what’s up?”
“I won’t be home tonight. Tell your mother I’m involved in an important case.”
“A man from the Nuclear Institute delivered more iodine tablets. Is the radiation a danger to people in Kiev? Should Mom and I run south and become Chernobyl Gypsies?”
Komarov tried not to shout, but Dmitry had probed a nerve.
“Don’t taunt me with talk of Gypsies! No one should be running away! The danger to us is created by Western propaganda! They’re wallowing in our misfortune!”
Komarov’s outburst caused Dmitry to remain silent.
“Tell your mother I’ll call tomorrow.”
“I will, Father.”
After he hung up, Komarov recalled the night he had threatened Dmitry on the back porch. Perhaps the lack of a father to speak with after dinner night after night had been the root cause of Dmitry’s problems. No! A son should be stronger, especially his son.
Komarov did not want to think about Dmitry. Instead, he sat at his desk and thought about the Sherbitsky affair. He remembered his early years here in this office when he often stayed overnight because he was young and enthusiastic and strong. Komarov was about to have a cot sent up from the basement when the phone rang.
It was the overnight guard at the front entrance.
“What is it?”
“There’s a woman here,” said the guard. “She wants to speak with someone in charge.”
“What’s her name?”
There were muffled voices before the guard came back on. “Her name is Tamara Petrov.”
Komarov could not believe it. Tamara Petrov questioned by Captain Brovko only two days ago and now she comes here of her own free will? “Bring her to my office. And contact Captain Brovko.
Wherever he is, tell him to come and see me at once.”
Although he had seen Tamara Petrov’s photograph, Komarov was surprised at her appearance. The photograph revealed long black hair and an olive complexion, reminding him of Barbara, the Romeo agent long ago in the GDR. The photograph had not revealed Tamara Petrov’s bracelets, long earrings, slender fingers, and loose silken blouse open at the neck. She wore a short skirt, and Komarov sat in a side chair rather than behind his desk so he could have a clear view of her shapely legs.
“I feel uncomfortable coming here,” said Tamara Petrov, crossing her legs. “I wouldn’t want my friends and associates to know.”
“Please be more specific, Miss Petrov.”
She leaned forward, her hands agitated, her bracelets jingling on the desk. “I need assurances, Major. I never want to have to repeat any of this at a hearing.”
Komarov felt excitement on two levels as he glanced at the shape of her breasts while at the same time wondering about the reason for her visit. “If you mean you want to remain an anonymous informant, Miss Petrov, then you have come to the right place.”
She stared into his eyes, trying to see something there. A Gypsy. All she needed was her crystal ball. But no one could see into another’s mind, especially his mind. He had proven it during the Sherbitsky hearings. Patience was always better than rushing into things.
“I’m here to help if I can, Miss Petrov. I know your journal published articles about Chernobyl, the shortages during construction, the quality of components, all of it. I realized long ago it was your duty to reveal these things, just as it is my duty to uncover wrongdoing at the power station. We have similar goals.”
Suddenly, something happened Komarov never expected. Tamara Petrov, who looked the part of a strong woman, broke down and wept. After a minute of sobbing and sniffling amid reassurances from Komarov, she was finally able to speak.
“He had no right coming to me.”
“You are speaking of Detective Horvath?” asked Komarov, careful not to sound anxious.
“Yes.”
“Please tell me about it, Miss Petrov.”
“I was coming home from the review office. I sometimes walk in the park along the river. He approached me near the footbridge to the island.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he needed help. He said… he needed a room for himself and a woman. He said I had influence at hotels and could find them a room.”
“What did you tell him?”
She wept again, and Komarov was forced to wait.
“I was going to tell him I couldn’t help and ask him to leave. But he insisted I was involved. He said I had sent him a message about this woman, Juli Popovics. He said I had saved them from the KGB.
